


midnight mafia mixers

by queenofcawdor



Category: Gotham (TV), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Hartley goes to Gotham, Hartley likes reading works written by polyglots, M/M, POV Second Person, except for the whole gloves thing what happened to the FLUTE, first robblepot? cobbleway? pied penguin?, i accidentally really liked the cw version of hartley, i like pied penguin a lot tbh, if that applies here, they are both villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofcawdor/pseuds/queenofcawdor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;	<br/>Am an attendant lord, one that will do	<br/>To swell a progress, start a scene or two,	<br/>Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,	<br/>Deferential, glad to be of use,<br/>Politic, cautious, and meticulous;	<br/>Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;	<br/>At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—	<br/>Almost, at times, the Fool.<br/>----<br/>Hartley moves to Gotham to get the only jobs that overlook a smear campaign from Doctor Wells of the Asshole Brigade, i.e, the illegal mafia employment opportunities. He sees a pretty face with even prettier intelligence. </p><p>Also: Oswald is surprised at positive attention, Hartley angsts over T. S. Elliot as he has done for fifteen years, and everyone truly needs to get their ego in check.</p>
            </blockquote>





	midnight mafia mixers

Your reputation as a theoretic physics genius has been libelled and slandered by an annoyingly handsome and unambiguously evil boss. Employer, that is: the mafia in Central City is nowhere near as powerful as Gotham’s.

But, if you can’t get a legal job, your cynicism and brilliance will still take you far in Gotham’s shadowy underworld. You know weaponry, and after the particle accelerator explosion in Central City twists your deafness to a cruelly ironic, hypersensitive hearing ability, you know you need to be unique about it. Or else you might actually let this city of darkness suck you dry into a cruel husk of your old self: evil, hollow, hoping for something to  _ happen _ .

The night hugs Gotham when you enter, gloom sticking to buildings. Central City and Keystone both shined; sun and moonlight gleamed off of buildings. The money you have siphoned off into your bank account from your parents--the Rathaways-- lets you pay for a soundproofed apartment in the area of town under control of the Falcone mob. The soundproofing protects your ears where the noise-dampening implants you make cannot. It also helps you to make the beginnings of an arsenal.

First, there is the flute you make. It is brilliant whenever it is struck by the rare sun of Gotham, but more impressive are the explosive capabilities. Through playing the different frequencies his acute hearing detects, you can play a song that shatters objects. It rests in a case hugged tight to your chest in a parody of a swaddled infant. 

After binge-watching Jessica Jones, you add another capability to the flute for mind control. If you listen to and reverse engineer the sub-vocal frequencies of a person’s system, you can play a measure or two that makes that person susceptible to unconscious orders or suggestions. There are also a few quick frequencies you learn can draw things to you (mainly rats, to the displeasure of your burly landlord) as well as force such things into a faint.

You call yourself the Pied Piper and take up work with Fish Mooney, knowing she has the connections you need to exert influence and gain the money you need to make a damned difference in this shithole world.

Hartley Rathaway, as a teenager, you were kind, idealistic, hoping to change the world. Now, in order to aid the sick, homeless, and unfortunate, you have to go a cruel route.

Fish gladly makes you a waiter. You are charmingly handsome with a vicious sarcasm, and of course, far too educated for the position. Fish Mooney is sadistic in a way that would make Harrison “Asshole” Wells jealous, and she knows the indignity for a man such as you with three Ph.Ds earned by twenty-three to be working as a server.

Your polyglot abilities also aid her, as she makes you translate the  _ very filthy and uncomfortably heterosexual _ sweet nothings her Russian co-mafioso whisper to her. All in all, you are just stacking up benefits for Fish.

Of course, between your flirting options, protection, and paycheck, you are not dissatisfied yourself.

Fish quickly promotes you to her second in command, knowing his use and respecting his cunning eyes. And when she gets a new Umbrella Boy with a bad knee and pale eyes with a familiar intelligence, you are--intrigued.

“Oswald Cobblepot, very nice to meet you,  _ sir _ ,” the Umbrella Boy says, a cheery falseness to everything about him. The styled hair and vintage suit to his alabaster skin and crisp pronunciation create a vision that would inspire Burton. 

You shake his hand, pull him closer than necessary. “Hartley Rathaway.  _ Charmed. _ ” 

This Oswald Cobblepot (or, as the thugs in Fish’s gang are already calling him,  _ Penguin _ ) bothers with politeness--yet hides a dark, sadistic cruelty in every fiber of his being. You can feel it,  _ hear _ it, with all  he has, and yet you want to take this man out for dinner. It has been so long since you have had an intelligent conversation that didn’t end with Fish’s knife pressed into the wood against your hand or the most brutal firing of which you’ve ever heard. You know this man is intelligent, to hide the ambitions clearly aching within him inside this lion’s den, to present himself as someone weak despite being nothing of the sort.

You have always been attracted to the worst sorts of people; those who have no true equal and never plan to have one. The mask of Oswald Cobblepot is some sort of J. Alfred Prufrock, you think. You almost laugh, thinking of the lines in question. Oswald Cobblebot can describe himself with accuracy in any manner of eloquence. But to best describe him is to pin him Prufrock, and then you watch him wriggle beyond measure. 

__ “My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,   
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —   
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)   
Do I dare   
Disturb the universe?”

And here lays the difference between Prufrock and Cobblepot. Cobblepot is vicious, seething at the world. The universe never had a choice in being disturbed. 

And yet, you still feel the keenness of the comparison.  _ No true equal, not even a literary one _ , you think to yourself, eyes tracing the form of Cobblepot a few weeks later. You barely know him, yet you know everything.

You have grown to understand that the most important ambition is not knowledge or money. It is power. Obviously, Cobblepot  has never needed that lesson. He walks weakly on dangerous ground but is already holding enough strings to at least take down some people with him if he falls.

As the Pied Piper, you mask yourself some nights, stopping whatever abuses of the homeless he can. Before universities accepted you and after you parents  _ didn’t _ , you learned the harshness of sleeping with little to no shelter. You know the violence and desperation. It’s an anonymous thing: it would be hypocritical of you, now, to be a vigilante. But a minor suggestion into the minds of potential assaulters to back away and let them go--that is simple, quiet. Untraceable to you.

As Hartley Rathaway, you wait a few months and invite Oswald Cobblepot to dinner in a quiet booth of a restaurant.

“Interesting place here, sir.”

“Call me Hartley, Oswald,” You smile your least threatening smile, hoping not too many teeth are showing. “This is not work related.”

“Ah,” replies Cobblepot, pale eyes blinking, processing. “I was not aware you were--”

You quirk an eyebrow. If Cobblepot thought you were straight, his gaydar is clearly more broken than your family life. Oswald seamlessly continues, noticing the twitch and correcting in a microsecond, “--attracted to me.”

Your smile widens to something predatory. “Oh, believe me, Oswald,” you say, leaning across the table, “I am.”

You and he order, an alarmingly self conscious Oswald Cobblepot asking for the same as you. Honestly, has no one told this man he was attractive? Contrasts have always appealed to you.

You maneuver yourself into an alliance with Oswald. You need more politically minded allies, you murmur into Oswald’s ear after an interesting night together, as your main contribution is knowledge and whatever technology you are willing to offer. Oswald readily agrees to the thought of an ally against Fish, and listening to his heartbeat, steady, you believe him. He could be one of those unrepentant liars (believable, honestly), but you--you still have a heart, Hartley.

You start to feel more than just attraction to Oswald.

Then, Oswald has to piss Fish off and get himself killed by a cop. 

* * *

 

You restrain yourself from making this “Jim Gordon” explode in his sleep. The man is a war-hero, somehow-honest Gotham police detective, a good hearted person who is not entirely to blame. Fish Mooney  _ is _ . You, as an engineer, are above all else a  _ plotter _ . You have just begun to set off the dominoes of this scheme of her destruction when you get an anonymous call from Oswald. 

Fish still  _ tried _ to kill him. You restrain yourself from succeeding in that endeavor with her. You glance instead to the water boiler taken off the stove to silence the whistling long ago--to the unwashed teacups and the crumbs dancing around on dirty plates--to the head resting softly on your chest.

You think again to Prufrock, the unsuccessful. An Oswald without the tenaciousness or brilliance or simple sadism. You think of learning of his rebirth, and more of the poem is recalled. 

You murmur softly to yourself, remembering.

__ “After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,   
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,   
Would it have been worth while,   
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,   
To have squeezed the universe into a ball   
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,   
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,   
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’”

Lazarus--that too is a comparison of shady inaccuracy. You rest your chin atop the black hair splayed across your chest. 

You do love him, you realize, with dread, hope, lust, fear, and a ungodly mix of other emotions. 

And you fear, despite all this, that it is you who is Prufrock. Because the only imaginable response from Oswald to such a confession of love is--well. Settling a pillow by his head, saying: “That is not what I meant at all; that is not it, at all.” 

 


End file.
